Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1) (5 page)

He could get lost in those eyes while dancing at the Morey Hotel beneath the twinkling sky.

“But I don’t know you,” she said, looking skittish. “Not really. My mo—” She snapped her mouth shut.

“You know me. I’m Sal. You’re Rosemary. And I’m asking you to dance with me. Nothing more.”

Her gaze shifted, softening, and it was as if she slipped somewhere else in her thoughts. Swallowing, she looked back at him. Determined. “Dancing sounds like a great way to meet New York City. Am I dressed nice enough for it?”

“You’re dressed perfectly.” He waved her inside the restaurant he worked in nearly every day of every week, the family business he was expected to expand like his brother had in Brooklyn. “Now you go try my grandmother’s meatballs and gravy while I finish up. Can’t leave my pops shorthanded.”

Wait.

Maybe he was doing this as a sort of slap in the face to his parents. For some reason he couldn’t seem to fall in line with what was reasonable. Maybe he should give in and plod down the path cleared for him, even if it meant an Italian wedding, a mortgage, and, if his mother had her way, Angelina sporting a layer of cold cream lying beside him every night. Didn’t sound fun, but maybe life wasn’t supposed to be fun. Maybe life was supposed to be endured.

Don’t fight the inevitable. Wave the white flag. Be a good boy. Embrace who you are . . . and say good-night to the Dixieland delight.

“You sure about this?” Rosemary asked, jarring him out of his reverie.

He looked at her again. At the gray eyes, cute nose, sensuous lips. Something inside him reached toward her. “I’ve never been more certain.”

“Okay,” Rosemary said, sliding back inside the restaurant, sucking in a deep breath. He caught a whiff of her perfume again, earthy and floral. Made him think of lazy days in his grandmother’s garden. Made him think of licking his way down to her navel, breathing in her goodness.

He couldn’t wait to hold this woman in his arms, to feel her move against him to the same songs he’d danced to in his parents’ kitchen every New Year’s Eve when he was a boy. Rosemary felt like a tap from the past . . . and a shove into a different place. Like some crazy movie where a guy met someone he knew in a past life. Like something meant to be.

Which was dog-assed crazy.

A man didn’t fall in love on a random Thursday while handing out the midweek specials. But, of course, this wasn’t love. It was a hunch, a rabbit chase of youth, an opportunity to feel a
what if
pounding through his blood, maybe for the last time. Taking Rosemary dancing was an inexplicable twist of fate.

After all, only a fool would believe such romantic destiny truly existed.

Chapter Four

Rosemary could never, ever, ever tell her mother that she’d agreed to go dancing with a man the night she arrived. Dancing. With a stranger. In flipping New York City.

Her mother would disown her.

Or lock her in a padded cell.

With a chastity belt in place.

Even so, walking beside Sal felt pretty darn good. Like she was doing what she’d set out to do. Grab life with both hands.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she whispered to herself, sidestepping a garbage bag someone had dragged out to the curb.

Sal overheard. “Hey, you gotta live a little. Nothing wrong with cocktails and slow dancing. You’re gonna love this place. Cross my heart and hope to die if you don’t.”

“I know I will, but I’m rusty on the dancing. Don’t think I’ve danced since my senior prom. That was, like, ten years ago,” she said.

Sal clasped a hand against his chest. “That’s a travesty. Truly. What pretty girl doesn’t get taken out dancing every now and again?”

“The kind of girl who lives in Morning Glory, Mississippi.”

He came to a dead stop. “Are you telling me they don’t dance in your hometown? Like in
Footloose
?”

Rosemary laughed, tugging his arm forward. “Don’t be silly. We dance. When the minister’s not looking.”

His eyes widened.

“I’m kidding. We have some honky-tonks where people go dancing. I think they line dance, but I wouldn’t know.”

Sal started walking again, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. Something in the old-fashioned gesture made her heart swell . . . or maybe it was the fact she could feel the heat of his body through the cotton button-down he wore. Her stomach trembled at the feel of him beneath her arm. It had been a long time since she’d been with a guy. Probably way too long, which had led to this insanity she’d embarked on.

Hopefully, she wouldn’t end up with her head on a platter and her liver served up with fava beans. Her mother would never forgive her for being served with a side dish she detested.

“So you don’t do honky-tonks?” Sal asked. “I’ve always thought those places sounded cool. Or maybe I wanted an excuse to wear a pair of cowboy boots.”

Would he think she was nerdy if she said she’d rather spend a quiet evening with a book or a movie night with her friends? “Guess honky-tonks aren’t my scene. But you’d look good in cowboy boots.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, mimicking the tip of a pretend cowboy hat. “Howdy, ma’am.”

His redneck accent was as bad as his Scarlett O’Hara. “But you should keep the New York accent.”

He looked resigned. “So you don’t do honky-tonks but you will go to a rooftop joint with a guy with a Brooklyn accent?”

Rosemary thought about that for a moment. She’d always been unwilling to pull on tight jeans and head to the Iron Bull on Friday nights. Loud country music and guys she’d seen eat paste in kindergarten didn’t really float her boat. But dancing on a rooftop in the city that never sleeps? A gal didn’t turn down an opportunity like that, especially when she’d been lying in a proverbial ditch for the past four years. Treading water. Yeah. Rosemary Reynolds needed some crazy in her life the way a sinner needed prayer. “Guess I’m not into guys who dip tobacco. You don’t dip, do you? Because I’m going to turn around if you say yes.”

Sal made a face. “No, but I used to smoke. Does that count?”

“I don’t think so . . . unless you unrolled them, packed them in your lip, and proceeded to spit every few seconds.” She shuddered.

“You’re safe,” he said.

For a few minutes they moved silently down the busy street. It was nearly ten o’clock and the city felt alive. In Morning Glory a single car out and about after ten was a rarity. On weekends local high school kids careened around the square in their big trucks, heading out to someone’s farm to sneak booze, but otherwise, after midnight nothing happened in her sleepy little town but . . . sleep.

After they crossed the third intersection, she turned to him. “So your family runs Mama Mello’s?”

“Been in our family for generations. My grandfather’s pop came over from Sicily back at the beginning of last century.”

“Sicily?”

He laughed. “You hearing the theme from
The Godfather
?”

“Maybe.”

“Why? You need someone to sleep with the fishes?”

Rosemary swallowed the unease that crept up inside her. She watched crime shows and knew that meant taking someone out. Dear Lord, was she going out with a Mafia guy? She hadn’t even thought about that. Suddenly she felt very Diane Keaton. “Uh, I—”

“I’m kidding, you know,” Sal said, his white teeth flashing in the darkness. He patted the hand tucked against his side. “There’s some wise guys somewhere in the family tree, but I ain’t it. Just a guy who makes pizzas and a damn good marinara. You’re safe.”

She allowed a breath to escape.

That made Sal chuckle. “You were worried, huh? You’ve seen too many movies, but I feel a little more macho knowing you were willing to believe I’m that tough.” He puffed his chest out and swaggered a bit, making Rosemary laugh.

Laughing felt good.

Being with Sal felt good.

“You’re silly,” she said, punching his arm halfheartedly.

“Not too many people would say that about me, but I guess pretty Mississippi girls make me feel a little goofy,” he said, looking down at her. His brown eyes seemed to gleam in the neon lights reflected off the building they passed. Her heart skipped a beat as he gave her a wink. “But I like it. This night’s a . . . gift? Something. I’ve been waiting on someone who makes me feel something more than . . . I don’t know . . . panicked? Here lately I’ve been feeling like my life is on tracks heading somewhere I never bought a ticket for.”

For a second he paused, looking aghast. “Guess that might have been TMI.”

“No, I know what you mean. My life has been more like waiting at the station. Or maybe running the same track back and forth with no switches. But that’s why I’m here. I jumped track . . . at least for a few weeks.”

“Jumped track, huh? I like that. Guess I jumped track, too.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“Well, I asked a perfect stranger to go dancing.”

“So you’re saying I’m perfect?” she teased, elbowing him in the ribs.

“I’ll say.”

Rosemary couldn’t help but wonder about his honesty. If he’d jumped track to go with her, what was his regular circuit? And why was he waiting for someone to make him feel different? “So I’m a departure from the norm? I would have pegged you as a professional track jumper.”

“I’ve jumped a few tracks. Maybe too many. But these days I feel like I’m being sucked down a drain. All those things I once thought would happen have disappeared, leaving me with the inevitable. So yeah, you feel like a risk.”

“Who would have ever thought Rosemary Reynolds was risky.” Rosemary hadn’t been the biggest Goody Two-Shoes at Morning Glory High, but she had run a close second.

“Definitely not Mr. Weingarten. But you showed him,” Sal said, giving the arm he held a squeeze. “You were something else.”

His words were honey poured over her, delicious and needed. She wondered if he felt it too—that zing and zap of something between them. Not sexual, though that was there, but more of a sweetness that ebbed and flowed between them, embedded in the teasing and the honest words. She felt alive with him. “Well, down in Mississippi we have plenty of old tomcats with loud meows and quick paws.”

Sal shook his head. “Guess quick paws aren’t exclusive to feeble German pipe fitters.”

They kept steady progress toward a hotel flying several different flags outside where bellmen assisted patrons from cabs and limos. She turned to him. “Have you ever been down South?”

“Do you consider Orlando part of the South? We went there once. Once. Pops said he’d rather eat glass than go back again.”

“Really? I went to Disney World a few years ago and I loved it.”

He hooked a dark eyebrow. “I can see that. You’re the kind of girl who believes in magic.”

Rosemary thought about that. “Well, yeah. Believing in something is what makes life worth living. I had forgotten that but a friend recently reminded me how important it is to reach for the magic in life.” She tried to keep her voice light but sorrow leaked into her words.

“You sound sad,
passerotta
.”

“Maybe a little. So what’s passa—whatever you just said?”

“It’s an endearment. Means ‘little sparrow,’” he said with a soft smile. “My grandmother used to call my sisters that.”

“Oh,” Rosemary said, pressing her lips together, shoving her grief back into the space where she kept it locked. She didn’t want sadness tonight. Not when romance pushed them toward a canvas of stars above a glittering city. Lacy would be so proud of her . . . and aghast at allowing even a drop of grief to destroy the mood. “Well, this sparrow is glad to be here in this moment. With you.”

Wow. She’d said those words out loud.

He reached over and slapped the button on the streetlight in order to get the light. “Best idea I’ve had in forever.”

Seconds later they entered the elegant lobby of the historic Morey Hotel, with its huge shimmering chandelier and bellmen clad in cherry-red coats. A bank of elevators led to the rooftop bar thirty stories up. Several older couples crowded into the elevator with her and Sal, making Rosemary step closer to her sexy Italian. Ah, the perks of a crowded elevator.

Sal topped out at six foot, but his broad shoulders and strong jaw made him seem taller. He smelled a bit like warm Italian bread with a hint of woodsy cologne. He still wore the black trousers he’d worn earlier but had rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt, revealing tanned forearms. A swirl of ink peeked out at her, teasing her imagination.

She’d never gone out with a guy who had a tattoo.

The other couples were dressed more formally. The women wore jewels and the men custom jackets. Suddenly Rosemary felt underdressed. She plucked at the neck of her blouse, winding her fingers around her grandmother’s pearls.

“You look fine,” Sal said, curving an arm around her waist.

She gave him a grateful smile, appreciating how intuitive he was. Most guys she knew wouldn’t have sensed her discomfort. Maybe this was why she had done something her mother and half of Morning Glory would say was dangerous as hell.

“Your pearls are lovely,” one of the older ladies said, eyeing the strand she twisted.

“Thank you. They’ve been in my family for generations.”

The woman smiled. “I’ve always wanted a pair. My mother never liked them. She was a diamond sort of girl.”

“Well, diamonds
are
a girl’s best friend,” Rosemary said, finding herself relaxing against Sal’s solid presence.

“So what are pearls?” the diamond-bedecked woman asked as the elevator doors opened.

Rosemary tilted her head before smiling softly. “They’re a girl’s link to who she is.”

“Quite right,” the woman said.

Sal’s hand rested lightly on her waist as he steered her into the entrance of Luna. Black-and-white-checked floors opened to a foyer of a glass rooftop lounge holding tables with low candlelight. Waitresses in soft blue dresses swirled between the patrons. On the far side of the club, under strings of lights stretched from one end to the other, lay a dance floor. A five-piece band played “Moon River” as a curvy woman crooned into an old-fashioned mic.

“Whoa,” Rosemary breathed as she stepped into the foyer, loving that Sal kept his arm around her as he followed.

“Told you,” he said, his hand squeezing her waist.

“I wish I had worn a dress. Something swishy.” That statement earned her another crooked smile. Lord, she could become addicted to his smile.

A hostess approached. “Table for two?”

“Maybe later,” Sal said, nodding toward the dance floor. “We’re going to take advantage of your nice hardwood.”

The hostess waved her had with a flourish. “Enjoy and let me know when you’re ready.”

Sal looked down at Rosemary, his chocolate eyes glittering. “This girl hasn’t danced in over a decade. We’re only sitting if her feet start hurting.”

Rosemary lifted her sandaled foot with the flat sole. “Not a chance.”

The hostess smiled, because who could not smile when two people were so perfect for each other?

Well, at least perfect for one night.

Rosemary might be floating on a cloud of romance and daring, but she knew what this was—one of those nights that can’t be planned, that can never be repeated, only mentioned with a wistful tone years from now when she remembered that one time in New York City . . . under the stars . . . in the arms of a sexy man.

Sal guided her through the tangle of tables, clinking glasses, and laughter to the outer edge of the crowded dance floor and then folded her into his arms.

She refrained from sighing but it felt so right. His arms were warm, strong, and, yeah, safe. She’d never been the sort who felt she needed a man or his protection, but there was something about being wrapped in muscular arms that made a woman feel like, well, a woman.

His five o’clock scruff brushed against her hair as he lifted her hand and clasped it in his. Then he started moving to the music.